


You'll Get Yourself Killed (Defending my Honor)

by HomebodyNobody



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, I Don't Even Know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 20:05:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3991036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HomebodyNobody/pseuds/HomebodyNobody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There was a brutal fight and I can barely stand so you gave me a ride home and patched me up" AU</p><p>OR </p><p>Bellamy gets his ass kicked and it's up to Clarke to fix him</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'll Get Yourself Killed (Defending my Honor)

**Author's Note:**

> This is semi-beta'ed and barely edited and finished at 11:30 PM and I apologize. (Also I know that Tristan McClean is a character in the PJO series but I picked the last name cause it sounded good and then when I figured it out it was too late to change it)

The halls of Arkadia Public High School emptied quickly, spilling teenagers out into the sunny Friday afternoon. Clarke, grateful for the warmth of the day, stretched out on top of a picnic table in front of the school, only half-listening to Raven.

“Really,” the other girl said, digging a large black notebook out of her bag, “the newer model’s a piece of shit, but it’s pretty, so Wick --” (Wick was the undergrad working with the auto shop teacher for credit while he saved up for school; Raven pretended to hate him to cover up her enormous crush) “-- insists we work with it in class…”

 Clarke tuned out her best friend’s ranting, enjoying the late-spring sunshine. Raven rambled on about weak juncture points and poor efficiency, but Clarke closed her eyes and felt the sun soak into her bones. Senior year  was nearly over, her classes had just finished AP tests, and after four three-hour tests in three days, she deserved some relaxation, damnit.  

 “Clarke,” Raven asked, “are you even listening to me?”

 Clarke stretched her arms above her head. “No,” she replied cheerfully. Raven’s sigh was less anger and more exhausted exasperation. The two girls sat in amicable silence for a few moments, Raven flipping through her notes, Clarke simply enjoying the afternoon. The peace was interrupted when Clarke sat bolt upright, blond waves swinging behind her. Raven jerked her head up, startled.

 “What the hell?”

 “Did you hear that?” Clarke stared out at the parking lot, mostly empty save for a few students running towards a corner. The distant strains of Fight! Fight! Fight! reached the pavilion where the two girls were sitting.

 Realization dawned on both faces. They looked at each other and said in unison, “Bellamy.”

 Clarke jumped down off the table and grabbed her backpack as Raven slammed her notebook shut and attempted to get up from the bench. Her brace caught on the splintered wood and she fell back to the seat, cursing. Catching sight of Clarke’s torn expression, she closed her eyes and sighed. “Just go,” she said, “before Tristan beats the shit out of him again.”

 Clarke spun on her heel and dashed across the asphalt, hair swishing behind her. Bellamy Blake, her next door neighbor and childhood friend, had not only a hero complex, but also an apparent death wish. Ever since freshman year, he’d done his best to antagonize Tristan McClane, the massive runningback, for no apparent reason.

 “You wouldn’t understand,” he’d snapped once as she’d pressed ice to his black eye, “Tristan is a self-entitled, douchey assbag, and someone has to knock him down a few pegs.”

 “It has to be you?” She’d asked, flinching at the bruises blossoming under his jaw.

 “I have a right to.”

 This statement was later explained by Bellamy’s sister, Octavia, who’d described the rivalry as a “macho-man thing involving turf, long-standing grudges, and once, a girl.” Simply put, no one but Bellamy and Tristan understood why they hated each other. No one dared ask, either. Whenever Clarke, or anyone else, asked about Tristan, Bellamy would go stone-faced and raise one eyebrow. The expression terrified everyone but Octavia.

 By the time Clarke had fought her way through the chanting, bloodthirsty crowd, Bellamy was already losing. Tristan slammed him up against the side of a car, his forearm tight against Bellamy’s throat. “C’mon, Blake!” he goaded, his smile a gruesome picture of busted lips and bloody teeth. “Fight back.”

 Bellamy’s face hardened. He shifted his weight, readying himself to surge up against the other boy and throw him to the ground. At the same moment, Clarke locked eyes with him over Tristan’s shoulder -- Bellamy only hesitated for the barest moment, but the shift in his stance betrayed him, and Tristan shifted a foot under Bellamy’s ankle and twisted his grip. Bellamy went sprawling across the parking lot. His breath left his lungs with a whoosh, the impact making him see stars.

 “NO!” Clarke’s voice cut through the fog of pain and the chanting of the crowd, sending a jolt through Bellamy’s gut.  He let out a yell and writhed in Tristan’s grip, to no avail, kicking his feet against the pavement and glaring up into Tristan’s cold, cruel, smiling eyes. Tristan hauled his fist back and slammed it repeatedly against Bellamy’s face.

 “GET OFF HIM!” Clarke screamed, lunging toward the pair wrestling on the ground. Miller skidded onto the scene, taking hold of Clarke’s arm and launching her back into the crowd.

“Hang on,” he said, ever the level-headed one, before throwing himself on Tristan’s back and wrenching him off Bellamy. Clarke set herself to follow him, but Raven limped up to her side and held her back, shaking her head. Bellamy sat up, stunned, while Tristan and Miller struggled next to him.

 Catching sight of Clarke, his eyes widened. “Princess -- “ he started, “You shouldn’t be --” His words were cut off by a bellowing voice.

 “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?” Principal Jaha stood in the crowd of students, a shame-faced Wells at his side. Everyone froze, Tristan with his hands reaching for Miller’s neck, the latter with his fist pulled back, arm trembling and ready to strike.  Bellamy stopped halfway through standing up and looked up through sweaty curls, chest heaving. “Blake, McClane, and Miller, stay here. The rest of you, DISPERSE.”

 Raven pulled on Clarke’s arm, tugging her away from the scene and towards her beat-up truck. Clarke kept her eyes on the three boys as they walked away, noticing that Bellamy wouldn’t -- or couldn’t -- stand. The two girls leaned against Raven’s beat-up Ford, Flipping the tailgate down and swinging their bare legs back and forth. Raven tinkered with something in her lap, but Clarke couldn’t stop glancing over to where Jaha was lecturing the three boys. Miller stood with a lowered head, Tristan with crossed arms, and Bellamy leaned his elbows on his knees, still stuck on the ground.

 Finally, Jaha punctuated his point with a couple of violent gestures and stomped away, Wells trailing after him. Clarke raised an eyebrow at him as they passed. “Thank you,” she mouthed. He nodded. Clarke and Wells used to be close in middle school, but as they grew up, they drifted towards different crowds. Wells attached himself to the Cross Country team while Clarke found herself with the drifters, rejects, oddballs. She fit in with the spare parts, as Raven put it. Now their friendship was reduced to homework help, hallway hellos, and the odd favor, including this one.

 Once Jaha was clear, Clarke left her backpack in the bed of Raven’s truck and ran back over to Bellamy, her flip flops slapping against the hot asphalt. Miller had him by the arm, attempting to pull him to his feet when Clarke slapped his hands away and knelt beside Bellamy, her hands fluttering over his face. “What were you thinking?” she asked, her pale fingers dusting over his battered face. Bellamy winced as she pressed lightly on the bruise around his left eye. “You could have gotten yourself killed.”

 “Aw, Tristan wouldn’t have killed me,” Bellamy wheezed, holding his ribs. “He’s not that crazy.” He was bloody, battered, breathless, and sweaty, sitting stretched out on the ground. Clarke’s concerned, worried face filled his field of vision and the pain suddenly didn’t seem so terrible.

 Clarke gave him a look. “I’ve seen the butterfly knife he carries around, you idiot, you’re lucky Miller and I showed up when we did.” she twisted her fingers through his hair and pulled his head up, to look him straight in the eye. Clarke’s breath hitched at the sight. Bruises blossomed around both of his dark, chocolate brown eyes, a cut slashed over his left eyebrow, and the bridge of his nose swelled slightly. She smoothed her fingertips over the wrinkles in his brow. “Oh, Bellamy,” she whispered, not noticing the catch in his breath as her fingers traveled lightly over his injuries, “You stupid, brave, boy.”

 He smiled, and she winced at the sight of blood in his teeth. “I’m your knight in shining armor, huh, Princess?”

 She sighed and shook her head, unwinding her fingers from his hair and attempting to haul him up. “You’re an idiot,” she said again. Miller picked up Bellamy’s other arm and slung it over his own shoulders, and the two of them managed to get him over into Clarke’s blue datsun and into the passenger seat. Exhausted and out of breath, Miller and Clarke leaned against the side of her car.

 “Think he needs a doctor?” Miller asked, still breathing heavily.

 Clarke shook her head and flexed her shoulders. “Nah, I’ll patch him up.”

 Raven limped up and held Clarke’s bag out to her. “Our resident idiot okay?”

 Clarke took her canvas knapsack and slung it over her shoulder. “Yeah,” she answered, “With some bandages and antiseptic he’ll be fine.”

 Raven and Miller shared a significant look. “You’re taking him home?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and leaning her weight on her good leg.

 Clarke’s eyes darted, confused, between her friends, before responding. “No one else is gonna do it.” she glared at both of them while tugging her blond waves into an unruly ponytail.

 Miller shrugged and spoke immediately to cut off the statement halfway out of Raven’s mouth. “I’ll get Octavia,” he said, “Pick up his car.” Raven glared resolutely at Miller’s ear and  opened her mouth to say something, but Clarke was already moving. Done with feeling left out of the loop, she crossed to the driver’s side and ducked in, calling out a ‘thank you’ before pulling out of the parking lot. The drive to the Griffin’s was silent. Clarke bit her lip and tapped her thumbs on the steering wheel, fidgeting through every light. Bellamy only leaned his head back against the headrest and shut his eyes, wincing at each jostle. Getting Bellamy out of her tiny little car and in the garage door of her McMansion was a struggle, but eventually she had him sat on her kitchen counter, a bag of ice held to one eye.

 “Was he wearing a ring?” Clarke asked, squinting at the gash above his eyebrow. Bellamy nods, slowly, remembering the sun glinting off Tristan’s family crest shortly before it slammed into his face. Clarke sighed. “Why do you do this to yourself?” she muttered, smoothing an antiseptic wipe over the cut. She held his chin between her fingers to keep him from jerking away, and his eyes focused on her pale fingers against his dark, bruised skin.

 “Clarke…” he said softly. She shushed him and pasted a bandage over his face. “Clarke, I need --” his words stopped short in a choke as Clarke ran one hand down his sternum and the other over his left side. “What. Are you doing.”

 Her eyebrows furrowed, she tilted his neck to the side and examined the bruises on his collarbone. “I need you to take your shirt off.”

 Bellamy’s stomach dropped to his toes. “What?”

 “There’s something wrong on your left side. I need to check for floating or broken ribs.” Her expression was mostly professional yet slightly defiant. Bellamy, still frozen, raised his eyebrows. Clarke sighed, straightened up, and crossed her arms under her chest.

 His eyes flicked downward and he swallowed imperceptibly. “Clarke --” he tried again, doing his best to keep his eyes above her shoulders.

 She didn’t let him finish. “Listen,” she said, impatience audible in her voice. “You could be seriously injured. I need to check you out --” (He cleared his throat and dropped his head to hide his rapidly flushing face) “So stop being insecure and take off your damn shirt.”

 He sputtered. “I am not inse-- you think I’m? You’ve seen me --” She tapped her foot and raised her eyebrows. With a last sigh of defeat, he capitulated. “Fine.” Wincing, he grabbed his t-shirt by the back of the collar and yanked it over his head. Clarke gasped. Bruises spread across his ribs and chest, mottling his tan skin blue, green, and purple. A long scratch stretched over his left side, and he seemed unwilling -- or unable -- to straighten up.

 “Oh God, Bellamy,” Clarke breathed, “What did he do to you?” Her arms uncrossed and her fingertips trailed over the tender skin, ghosting over the bruises on his chest and his abdominal muscles. (Really, he was beautiful. She’d drawn him a million times, his profile, his jaw, his hands, his shoulders. Bellamy was an artist’s dream, all sharp lines and golden glow.) She paid no notice to his sharp intake breath as her hands traveled over his torso, stopping only when her fingernails grazed over his ribs and he shuddered. “What?” she asked, her gaze shooting up to his face. She pressed two fingers against the same spot. “Did that hurt?”

 He refused to meet her gaze, a dark blush spreading across his freckled face. “Not exactly… You’re --” he cleared his throat again. “You’re killing me here, princess.” Realization dawned on Clarke’s face as she heard his voice, lower and huskier even than usual. Slowly, (reluctantly) she stepped back and took her hands off his body.

 “Sorry --” she stuttered, “I didn’t realize I was -- I just -- wait, what?” Heat crept up her neck. She stumbled backward into the opposite counter and stared at him, bewildered, attempting to ignore his (rather distracting) shirtless torso.

 Bellamy smiled, shaking his head, wincing again. “You really don’t get it, do you, Clarke?” Her name sounded suddenly different in his mouth and Clarke was all-at-once much too aware of the fact that Bellamy -- her best friend, her confidant, the chubby-cheeked boy next door who’d grown into an awkward, gangly, thirteen-year-old who was now nineteen and broad and standing in her kitchen -- was ridiculously hot.

 Oh Dear God. This was bad. Really, really bad. She’d asked him to take off his shirt and then put her hands all over him and ogled at him like a desperate idiot and now he was smiling at her and oh God oh God what was she supposed to do. Clarke’s mind worked at a million miles an hour. She’d always known, of course, that he was attractive -- the pile of sketchbooks on her desk could attest to that -- but this -- this was different. This was her looking at Bellamy and feeling something so incredibly different than friendship or sisterly love or anything she’d ever felt for him before. This was him looking at her and her finally noticing the piercing longing in his dark eyes, the power in his broad shoulders, feeling her insides drop to her toes at the sound of her name and the sight of his smile.

 This was bad.

 “I --” she stammered, feeling like her tongue had turned to clay in her mouth. “I don’t understand what?”

 His biceps rippled as he gripped the counter for a moment and let go, just as suddenly. Clarke’s mouth went dry. “Tristan and me,” he said, “We hate each other because --” he laughed, the sound sending unfamiliar shivers down Clarke’s spine. “God, you never figured it out, did you?”

 In that instant, she hated herself and her blank, empty brain. Seventeen years, she’d managed around him, with nothing. No spark of attraction, no odd, lingering crush. Only exasperation and anger and occasional, fluttering moments she’d pass off as PMS. But he gets in a fight and takes off his shirt and suddenly she’s weak in the knees. Clarke shook her head, attempting to clear her thoughts. “Just tell me,” she blurted.

 Bellamy was silent for a moment, staring at his raggedy converse chucks against the Griffin’s gleaming wood floors. “It was you,” he said finally. “Tristan and me, we both --” he stopped and took a breath, his words hanging heavy in the still air. “We both wanted you. This whole time, Clarke, it’s been you. Freshman year, he was bragging about how he was gonna ask you out and get in your pants and I just -- I lost it. He stopped talking about you pretty quickly after that, but he’s hated me ever since.” The silence hung heavy in Clarke’s kitchen, solid and thick, as the two stared at each other. “Clarke,” he said, his deep voice oddly choked, “It’s you. It’s always been you.”

 The words were a bombshell. A shock, a violent, jarring shove, and a revelation, at the same time. “You --” she said, giving up and letting her gaze stay trained on his face, “You fought over -- over me?” She laughed, bitter and mirthless. “You idiot!”

 Stunned, he didn’t move. “What?”

 Anger reared its ugly head and threatened to come bursting out of Clarke’s chest. “You’re telling me this now? We’re about to graduate and you drop this on me now?” Bellamy stared at her, his face open and childlike with its wide eyes and slightly parted lips. Words tumbled out of Clarke’s mouth, unbidden and unprecedented. “You think I would have chosen McClane over you? Bellamy, you’re…” She trailed off and dropped her hands from where they’d been angrily gesticulating. He gazed down at her from his perch at the counter, hands open and pleading in his lap. Every moment, every glance and every word, every smile and soft touch fell into place. “It’s you,” she said softly, almost to herself. “It’s you,” she repeated. Her blue eyes were terrifyingly wide, and Bellamy stayed silent, watching realization bloom on her face.

“Clarke,” he said softly, daring to break the charged silence, “You don’t have to --”

 “No,” she replied, stepping forward and resting her hands on his shoulders. “I understand it now. You were always there for me, at every turn.” She remembers Sophomore homecoming, when she and Octavia, Monroe, and Emori piled into the Bellamy’s tiny sedan and drove to meet Lincoln, Jamie, and Murphy at Finn’s house, only to find Raven Reyes standing on his doorstep, beautiful, back from foreign exchange, and royally pissed to find Clarke dating Finn. (They’d gotten past it, as they would later fights, and ganged up on Finn, becoming closer than anything in the next two years.)

 Bellamy had told the rest of them to go ahead, throwing a death look at Finn over his shoulder, and taken Clarke to the diner at the edge of town. He’d slid into the booth next to her and held her as she cried, bought her pancakes and hashbrowns, promised her she still looked beautiful in her sparkly dress and tearstained eyes.

 She remembered eighth grade graduation, how her mother said she was coming late and hadn’t come at all, how Bellamy had sat with her on the curb in those ridiculous, scratchy, slate-gray robes and rubbed her back as she glared angrily out into the parking lot and explained that Abby had rarely been home after the divorce and her Dad’s transfer to the manufacturing plant in Denver.

 Every tear-filled night and desperate phone call, every time he’d wrapped her in his reassuring arms and held her close, let her know that she was beautiful and loved and wanted. He’d loved her, their whole lives, and never asked her for anything in return. And now, as she traced the sides of his neck with her fingertips and trailed her eyes over his sharp features, feeling his dark brown gaze burn into her, she realized; she loved him, too.

 Careful of the bump on his head, Clarke wound her fingers through his hair and pulled him towards her, pressing her lips gently and carefully to his. He was paralyzed for a moment, totally shocked at her sudden, apparent attraction, but then her tongue brushed against his bottom lip, and he reciprocated with enthusiasm, his hands brushing against her ribs before he wound his arms around her waist. Clarke lost herself in Bellamy’s kiss, cupping her hands around his face and resting her fingertips on his temples, finally happy to lose herself in feeling.

 Finally, he pulled away, black curls messy from Clarke’s fingers, lips swollen and pupils blown wide. “Clarke,” he tried, as he had so many time before, “Why now?”

 She shrugged and laughed, dropping her forehead against his. “I don’t know,” she whispered against his lips. “I guess seeing you all sexily beat up kinda tipped me over the edge.” Bellamy chuckled, too, and the sound vibrated through Clarke’s body, his fingertips tracing circles at the small of her back and sending tingles racing up her spine.

Bellamy tipped his chin forward and captured her lips again, kissing her gently and less frantically than before. Her knees softened and she fell against the counter, her arms wrapping behind his head. She chased his mouth as he pulled away, but he smiled and placed a finger over her greedy lips. “I’d love to take this further, princess,” he said, his voice husky and rough. “But it still feels like Tristan took a baseball bat to me and I don’t think making out is gonna help.”

 Clarke pulled away, shamefaced, and took his reluctant hands off her body. “You’re right,” she said, giving the appearance of back to business despite the pink flush across her cheeks. “I still need to fix you.”

 She reached behind her for a bandage and wrapped his ribs, attempting to ignore the tingles that came with every brush of skin against skin. Bellamy smirked as he watched her work, smiling down on her waves gleaming under the light. “What’s the verdict, doc?”

 Clarke fastened the bandage and straightened up, kissing him gently on the lips before pulling away. There was a short flutter in her stomach when she realized this was alright now, that she could kiss him whenever she felt like. “No strenuous exercise for at least six weeks and ice them every night. I’m certain they’re not cracked or broken, but they’re probably bruised and you need to take care of yourself.” Bellamy groaned sarcastically and grabbed her around the waist once more, hauling her in to fit their mouths together again. Clarke put her hands against his shoulders and pushed him away, laughing. “You need to rest,” she said, but made no move to leave.

 He couldn’t take his eyes off her mouth. “Resting sounds like the last thing I want to do right now.” He bumped her nose with his own. “I don’t think I want to leave.”

 She couldn’t seem to stop kissing him, and there was a long moment before she spoke again. “You won’t have to.” Nervously, she took him by the hand and led him up the stairs, blushing at his raised eyebrow when she gestured to her bed. “Just lay down,” she said, feigning confidence when her voice was actually nervous and shaky. “We can rest together.” Smirking, (again, damn him) Bellamy laid down across Clarke’s blue bedspread, his tanned skin gleaming in the golden sunlight pouring through her bedroom window. Clarke kicked off her flip flops and clambered up beside him, tucking her face against his neck and wrapping an arm around his waist. He winced as he adjusted his arm around her, and she stopped. “Are you okay?” she asked, concerned.

 With his other hand, he trailed his finger up her neck and tilted her chin up to his. “This is so much better than okay,” he whispered, and kissed her gently. The warmth of the room, Bellamy’s touch searing against her skin, and the soft whirring of the fan in the corner combined made Clarke go boneless against him, and she pulled away, smiling.

 “Rest,” she said, burrowing her nose into his neck. Her words vibrated deliciously against his skin. “And I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Bellamy laced their fingers together on his bandaged chest and rested his head against her soft hair. “That better be a promise, princess,” he said, the exhaustion of the fight finally seeping into his bones. Clarke’s warm body pressed against him and her breath ghosting over his skin lulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

His breathing was deep and even when she finally responded. “It is,” she whispered. “I promise.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> *Hides face in hands* I love you if you stayed this long. Please leave kudos if you think I deserve them. Also comments are A+


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